Teakettle
by Wildcat Wells
Summary: [Ri] Title is a hilarity amidst the foggy London suspense. The stream of conscious from Sherlock's righthand man, Watson. He is walking to inform a family that her body has been destroyed by Jack the Ripper, when something unexpected happens to dear Watso


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Teakettle

By: Ri Herbert, Period 5

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A/N (Author's Note): This isn't really a "fanfic", more like a stream of conscious writing. It could be construed as a fanfic, considering that there are crime books where the acts of Jack the Ripper are intently discussed, dissected and digested, no pun intended. I hope that this is more of a confusing conundrum as opposed to a worrisome P.O.V., which will award me with a trip to the Guidance office to have a little "chat" with Mr. Clayton. May everyone have an enjoyable day while reading/reviewing the class fics. Ja ne. 3 Ri

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What? Again? My, however dreadful…I shall be right down…Yes, sir, I shall inform the family…No, I shan't delay…Yes, I understand…Alright…I will see you then…Good day.

Oh, what another wondrous day in Scotland Yard. I was really looking forward to going home, pouring you a Scotch, ring my wife up a bell, then relaxing in the library with the evening paper. However, crime refuses to rest. Nay, it refutes my rest. The damned seem only to come alive at night, creeping from the woodworks, attracted to decay of society as flies to rotting stenches. Now society can find itself from the evil that it creates that so defines it. Respectability is only viewed from the surface.

With so much destitution and division, I am forced to go out, more and more, informing families that their missing daughter or run-away son has been found. They wish us to tell them the truth of the matter, yet curse us when we abide, oblige. The creatures of high society scorn all below them, including the law.

They say we are inhuman. Botherdash! We are human, each case destroys us inside, and we are justifiably prevented from showing so due to the perimeters of our jobs. The success of our jobs depends on such. I can see what they mean, for after your fifth or sixth murder, it isn't as emotionally ruinous. The senses become deadened to emotion, sharpening the senses needed to solve the case.

This will be my sixth murder…

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The darkened streets of London are a festering fearful spot at night. One must be mindful of one's step. Est trouble ye shall greet. One of the many huddles of prostitutes shrink back as I approach, their petticoats tattered, filthy. As I approach, the resume their previous positions, sneering out at me from a plume of cigarette smoke, asking me if I needed the company of an escort.

_No, thank you, Mademoiselles. I am on duty tonight. I wish not to find you laying in a gutter tonight, so please be mindful of whom you accompany this darkened time._

I let my warning settle in on them, reminding them of their earlier apprehension. Since the recent _Ripper _murders, the lower class has been held in a fierce grip of fear. Since I've joined the Yard, all of my murders have been his. Police constables have considered wearing some hat other than the currently popular bowler, for one witness remembers seeing a shady chap wearing one at one of the more recent crime scenes.

All efforts to find this Jack, the Ripper, have proved to be futile. Despite a wealth of clues, numerous sightings and handwritten letters, hand delivered to the police station, he manages to elude capture, dwelling among his victims. Each day I hope for a rest from this case, yet once my defenses are down, he strikes again.

My job is to inform the families that their wife, mother, daughter, sister will never be returning home. Because all of his victims have been prostitutes that are typically young mothers, trying to make the money to feed and clothe their children that their husbands cannot get, I find myself trying to explain the concept of death to children that only come knee-high to me.

_Pardon me sir. Do you know which way to Abbey Road? … Ah, thank you. Good night to you sir._

Strange chap. Wearing a bowler and trenchcoat tightly closed about him even though it is only October. London can get quite a chill about this time; it hardly merits use of a heavy closed coat. His voice was familiar… I believe it was-


End file.
